


hauntology

by stardustland (prowlish)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Conversations, Gen, Post-Canon, i literally don't have the first clue how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 19:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14291616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/stardustland
Summary: Springer tries very hard to understand Prowl and finds him elusive. post-SOTW.





	hauntology

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vaderade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaderade/gifts).



> Another commission, this one for my lovely friend Siv. :) Thank you for your enthusiasm and giving me such a fun topic to play with!
> 
> Special thanks to Sam and Squid who helped to beta this.

Prowl felt as tired and ill as Springer looked. As it turned out, oscillating in and out of the Noisemaze was no more fun than continuous exposure. Even with whatever assistance that sensor blockers provided, the strain felt strut-deep. They were in a side room awaiting full decontamination — they'd be damned before any of them accidentally brought back anything of Tarantulas’s. Tired and ill as he looked, there was an — energy about Springer, something exuded that was immeasurable by any sensor array.

 

Victory, he realized. It was the glow of the win.

 

But then Springer noticed him looking and he drew his optic ridges together in a thoughtful frown. “Why…”

 

Prowl tilted his helm, ignoring the painful buzzing of the sensor panels on his back. “What?”

 

The wrecker blinked as though to regain his bearings — which was entirely possible, considering. Springer frowned harder. “You’re a fragging idiot.”

 

Prowl pursed his lips, an optic twitching as he again ignored the painful protest of his doorwings when they drew up in affront. “I beg your pardon?”

 

Springer scowled. “You _should_! What did you do that for?”

 

The tactician’s hands fell to his hips, optics squinting at the mech before him. “What did I do _what_ for?” he demanded. Then he pulled his own frown. “Do you mean why did I _save you_?”

 

The larger mech gestured, as though to say ‘ _yes, exactly ._ ’ “We risked everything and more to get you back. What would have been the point of _any_ of it if you hadn’t succeeded? Stakeout and Roadbuster and Guzzle and Hubcap _died_ and — why are you laughing?”

 

Prowl covered his mouth with a hand, shoulders shaking. Springer looked almost spooked, not that Prowl blamed him; he have a reputation for mirth or fun. Was it the exhaustion? It had to be the exhaustion. Finally, he shook his helm. “Sorry, just — _you’re_ lecturing _me_ about jeopardizing the objective of a mission by making a rash decision.”

 

For one stunned moment Springer took that in but — to Prowl’s odd delight — he _did_ crack a smile. “You are _so_ wrung out,” he remarked.

 

Settling again, Prowl took a seat, his doorwings drooping. “You’re not wrong,” he said.

 

Silence stretched between them again. He couldn’t be sure how long; the last thing that concerned Prowl in the moment was the passage of time. Whenever they could be cleared and move on, try to attain some sense of _normal_ — or whatever passed for it — couldn’t come soon enough. And yet, he felt no impatience.

 

This was the gratitude, he supposed. Savoring sitting in a dim, forgotten room in _Debris_ with another battered, overtired mech, because it meant they had survived. Interesting.

 

“Prowl…”

 

The tactician looked up, one panel flicking as though still trying to expel lingering sensation. “Yes?”

 

“Why did you come back for me?”

 

Ah. So he actually wanted an answer. Prowl sighed as he considered his answer. The truth? The expected answer? Something in between? — truth be told, he was too tired even to care about running interpersonal scenarios. And something about Springer compelled a little more altruism, he’d found. One more on the list of reasons he made a good leader for a group like the Wreckers. “I ran numbers,” he said. “Everything I could come up with, down to the final probabilities, and nothing would work. No positive outcome on any of them.”

 

“...And?” Springer prompted, when Prowl fell silent for too long.

 

The tactician pursed his lips. “And that was it, from my side of things. But then I wondered what a Wrecker would do. What _you_ would do. I knew if our positions were reversed, you would go back for me. That tenacity — it was, of course, why I knew you were the only one for this kind of a mission.”

 

Another strange silence. “So — what, you asked yourself ‘WWSD’ and jumped back into the Noisemaze?”

 

A little smirk coiled Prowl’s lips and he started to reply, but it was that moment when Kup barged in with a scanner and portable decontamination equipment. Prowl's expression flattened again, and the moment between them passed.

 

Time to get cleared and move on.

 

***

 

After colliding into the Noisemaze, _Debris_ was rather the worse for wear. Attempts to move the space station proved unwise, so Prowl occupied his time by assisting with repairs on the on-board space bridge. Keeping busy was preferable to anything else, and the Wreckers — what was left of them — were content to leave him to it.

 

That suited Prowl fine. Work without distraction was quick work, and the sooner transport on and off Debris could resume, the better. There was no normal to get back to, just post-war life.

 

The notion always made Prowl roll his optics.

 

At last, they all gathered into one room — sans Impactor. Prowl didn’t know (or care) where he’d gone, and no one else commented about it. He busied himself at the console, inputting the coordinates and passcodes that would take them to the _Ark-7_ while Kup said his goodbyes to Springer, Verity, and Arcee. He intended to stay on _Debris_ for a few days, which seemed like a good idea. Leaving Impactor on _Debris_ solo was likely unwise.

 

Prowl voiced none of this, not wanting to bring out any contrary nature in the others.

 

“Stable connection established,” he intoned.

 

“Go on,” Kup said, gesturing at Springer — or maybe the human girl perched in the crook of his arm. “You’ll hear from me soon. Just need some space.”

 

Springer grunted. Verity held a hand to the side of her head, with only her thumb and pinky extended in some apparent shorthand gesture as Springer gently set her on the floor. Prowl thought he could surmise the meaning. He remained at the controls and watched as Arcee went through first, then Verity, then Springer — though he cast one glance over his shoulder before stepping through.

 

Striding away from the console, Prowl glanced sidelong at Kup. “I will contact Optimus and have enough staff sent along to help maintain _Debris_.” Prowl was more than capable of adjusting assignments himself, but he was willing to wager that his choices wouldn’t be met with much gratitude.

 

Kup grunted. “Sure.” It seemed that he said something more as Prowl stepped through the space bridge, but his senses were already consumed by interdimensional transport. Considering the circumstances, it could’ve been anything — but it was of no consequence in the end.

 

He emerged on one of the wide corridors of the _Ark-7_ chosen for such transportation and found it empty — except for Springer. Prowl arched an optic ridge. “Were you afraid I wasn’t coming?” he remarked.

 

Springer rolled his optics. “We have unfinished business,” he said.

 

“If I had five shanix every time I heard that,” Prowl muttered, tapping a few buttons at the space bridge controls to close the portal.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Nothing,” Prowl said, turning back around. “But can this be done walking? I’d like to get a few things from my quarters before reporting back to Cybertron.”

 

Springer just shrugged his massive shoulders.

 

Taking that to pass as a yes, Prowl led the way through the ship to his private rooms. Springer followed. Despite having apparent pressing business, he remained quiet for most of the trip. It was almost unnerving. But then Prowl had so very recently had his definition of “unnerving” expanded.

 

“I still don’t get it.”

 

Prowl barely glanced aside. “What?”  


“You. Pulling me out of the Noisemaze.”

 

Was he still on about that? Was it business or curiosity? Prowl flicked a doorwing in place of his own shrug. “Was my previous answer insufficient?” he asked.

 

Springer grunted. “No, I’m just saying I don’t get it.”

 

Prowl stopped in front of the door which housed his quarters aboard the _Ark-7_. He opened it with a security code, ignoring the obvious expectation of a reply for a few moments. “And this is what is so important?”

 

He didn’t have to look — he could _hear_ the scowl in Springer’s next words: “Can you blame me?” he asked.

 

“You’re the only person I’ve known who is so interrogative towards being alive following such dire circumstances.”

 

Springer sighed, inviting himself to sit in one of the near chairs. Considering it — like all the furnishings in here — was sized for Prowl, it hardly seemed possible Springer could be comfortable. But he neither fidgeted nor complained. “Oh, I’m glad to be alive, don’t get that wrong,” he said. “But — I don’t understand your motivation.”

 

Prowl glanced over from his desk. “Don’t understand or don’t trust?”

 

The length of pause before he replied was quite telling. “Both, maybe. You operate behind numbers — percentages, schematics, logic, whatever. But there was nothing logical about going back, you said that yourself.”

 

“So I did.”

 

“So _why_ act on — on what a Wrecker would do? I mean, by definition that’s usually something rash and not thought out.” He gestured at Prowl, as though the combination of word and motion would compel him to give a satisfactory answer.

 

Prowl flicked his doorwings as let a controlled burst of air rush from his vents. “As… infuriating as it is for me, there exists something beyond what logic and mathematics can calculate in such actions. If I did not believe so, I would not have signed off on all the missions I have throughout the duration of the war. The concept is not so foreign to me as it might seem.”

 

Springer snorted. “Sure,” he said. “But why act on it at that moment?”

 

Shaking his helm, Prowl tucked a few datapads into his subspace before peering at Springer with his arms crossed. “Why not?” he said. “You woke up out of a five year coma and immediately dedicated yourself to my safe return. The least I could have done was ensure that you made it out, too.” After a moment, he tilted his helm. “Don’t look so surprised. My job for millennia has been to minimize Autobot casualties. I don’t understand why this is so difficult to wrap your head around.”

 

A bark of a laugh escaped the green mech. He stretched and leaned back in the chair, which was looking structurally uncertain under his bulk. “So now you were just doing your job?” he said. “God, are you ever _real_ about anything?”

 

Prowl frowned, his doorwings flaring high on his back. “Excuse me?”

 

Springer swept an arm wide, as though to indicate all of Prowl — or their spartan surroundings. “It’s only the two of us and I’m asking a borderline personal question. You could just _talk_ to me one-on-one, but instead you’re still keeping yourself miles away.”

 

Now Prowl flicked his doorwings in annoyance. “Don’t feel singled out, I do that to everyone,” he said flatly. “I’m not sure what you want me to tell you. If you think I am not being genuine, frankly, that is your problem. You do not trust me, so why should I make myself vulnerable at your demand?”

 

Springer sat forward again, the chair making an dangerous _thunk_ of a sound. “You don’t have to be vulnerable to be sincere,” he replied.

 

“Then I don’t know what answer will satisfy this little obsession of yours,” Prowl shot back. “I’ve been truthful. I’ve explained my actions to you. What more do you want? To hear that you’re somehow special? Some kind of sentimental attachment? The turning of a new leaf?” The memory of Hubcap flashed through his mind and he squeezed his hands into fists at his sides.

 

The Wrecker stood suddenly, his face pinched up in frustration. He turned his back on Prowl. “No,” he grumbled. From the conflict that sent his field into coils of exasperation, Prowl got the distinct impression that Springer didn’t know _what_ he sought out of this conversation.

 

Prowl sighed, flicked the sensor panels on his back. “Perhaps it is a topic to revisit in the future,” he said — and even as he said it, he tasted the hollowness of the words. As if they would be pen pals, or that Springer would seek any more time with him that wasn’t necessary as defined by their roles within the Autobots. Springer stayed silent, his broad shoulders hunched. The tactician pursed his lips. “Was there anything else?”

 

The silence stretched on so long that Prowl nearly kicked Springer out so that he could get back to the space bridge and take himself to Cybertron. Then, shoulders loosening, he peered over his shoulder a little — just enough for Prowl to catch a glimpse of blue optics. “Prowl.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“What is… Ostaros?”

 

For a moment, Prowl was sure his spark completely halted. “What do you mean?” he demanded. Even for Prowl, his tone was sharp. He studied Springer closely — as much as he could see of him. Grim profile. Tense shoulders. Troubled field.

 

Springer turned back towards him a little. “Towards the end. I stopped transmitting because Tarantulas attacked me. I couldn’t understand what he said with the Noisemaze collapsing, but… he kept saying Ostaros, over and over again. It’s what, a name?”

 

Prowl studied his features, thinking. Springer had just accused him of being too distant, and yet… there was only so much that could be laid bare all at once. “Yes,” he admitted. “It’s a name.”

 

The concession didn’t seem to abate any of Springer’s concern. Or was it confusion? “Who — ? Why would Tarantulas — ”

 

“Tarantulas was unhinged,” Prowl remarked. “He spent years in the Noisemaze with no protection. His view of reality was warped. There’s really no reasoning _why_ he did or thought anything.”

 

The open look of disquiet stayed on his features for the blink of an optic. He nodded, squaring his shoulders. “Right. Of course.” Then Springer looked directly into Prowl’s optics with those Matrix-blue optics. “Did you know him? This person Tarantulas was looking for?”

 

Prowl gestured him towards the door, not at all anxious to linger. “No,” he finally said. “Not really. He did not live very long.”

 

Springer didn’t say anything to that, but he allowed himself to be ushered out of Prowl’s quarters and watched as the mech locked up again. “Will you be staying on Cybertron?”

 

“Not for very long,” Prowl said. “My tolerance for Starscream grows shorter and shorter.”

 

Whatever reverie Springer had been stuck in, _that_ snapped him out. “ _Starscream_?” he said. “What about Starscream?”

 

Right. Of course. Asleep for five years. Prowl shook his helm, an odd smile on his lips. “You have a lot to learn about post-war life,” he replied.

 

“Post-war,” Springer muttered, and something about the mix of disgust and skepticism in his voice warmed Prowl's spark.

 

“Yes, believe it or not.”

 

“I don’t believe it.”

 

Prowl tilted his helm, a glint in his optics. “On that we agree,” he replied. He turned, angling back the way they’d come, towards the space bridge. “A lot of our kind are finding it quite relaxing, actually. Take your time on Earth. I’m sure Verity will be happy to show you how to vacation.”

 

“How do you know where I’m going?” Springer demanded. The words were almost petulant, but he was signaling surprise and suspicion in his field.

 

Prowl smirked. “Who do you think I am?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> title is a result of random google searching. I was plugging random concepts in to try to find something and first stumbled across "sehnsucht" which seemed fitting in some senses that it was used but also it just makes me think of that Rammstein album 
> 
> so I ended up on this instead. the wiki quote that got me was: a "nostalgia for lost futures." I felt that was fitting for, if not this piece, then a lot of the way I view Prowl & Springer's relationship
> 
> as always, drop by to hang out on [twitter!](http://twitter.com/decepticats)


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